


Out There With The Wounded

by Elyandra



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Community: daredevilkink, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rape, Sexual Assault, h/c, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 06:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4468874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elyandra/pseuds/Elyandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt’s world is torn apart by that one horrifying night of pure humiliation and pain. It almost destroys him, and he wouldn’t have made it through, if it weren’t for that unconditional, Foggy-shaped lifeline that keeps him from going under. (College era fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out There With The Wounded

**Author's Note:**

>   
>    
> 
> 
> Warning: Strong non-con warning. And angst, so much angst.
> 
> Author's Note:  
> I don’t usually write dark shit like this, but I’ve had a sad and weird week, and my mind is craving to go to the dark place. As in bottom of humanity dark. This is by far the most despicable thing I’ve ever written. You’ve been warned.
> 
> Here are the two daredevilkink prompts that inspired this:  
> 1) <http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/1296.html?thread=1808400#cmt1808400> (Matt/OMCs, non-con)  
> 2) <http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/725.html?thread=327125#cmt327125> (Anyone/Matt Non-con)
> 
> Admittedly, Foggy may be a bit Mary Sue-ish in this one, but he’s already a pretty awesome friend in canon, and that’s what I’m building upon.
> 
> I should mention this hasn't been beta'ed. Title is from a Third Eye Blind song called “[Wounded](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XTKM4EEfb68)”. Cover art by, uhm... me.
> 
> ~~~~~~

Matt has no recollection of how he got here, or where ‘here’ even is. Everything is blurry around the edges of his perception, but the one thing he immediately knows is that something is very wrong.

Hands. Hands are grabbing him in all the wrong ways, in all the wrong places. Someone’s holding him up, but he’s also pressed against something. His body is wrapped face-first around a square pillar of some sort, his hands tied around it so that he can’t move his arms.

It is then he notices that he’s missing his pants. He’s naked from the waist down. And soon he knows why, and it hits him like a sledgehammer. A body presses against him from behind, an erect penis enters him quick and hard. He’s being pushed into the pillar. Forcefully. Repeatedly. It hurts.

He tries to buck, tries to struggle, but his muscles won’t cooperate. There’s a small group of people, and they’re pinning him down too well. His legs and arms are held in place by strong hands. He has no chance at all.

He screams, yells, then quiets. He listens. There’s at least four of them, but no one says a word. It’s almost eerie.

He collides with reality to the tune of the naked flesh that smacks against his buttocks. The pain undulates in impulse waves. Matt lets out another yell, followed by a whimper. “Please. Please stop.”

They do. Eventually. But it gets worse. They trade places. Not once—three times. They each get their turn. Silent tears streak down Matt’s face as the assault continues.

He’s tried to disengage his mind, tried to assess where he is, who they are. The smells aren’t familiar, but he thinks he might be in a basement. There’s concrete walls, and he believes he can detect a faint odor of fuel oil.

His assailants are smart. Careful. Not a sound comes from their lips, and they all seem to smell of Old Spice and the same, musky deodorant. They’re wearing gloves of some kind, too. Under normal circumstances, he might be able to reach out with his senses and tell them apart, but he figures they must have drugged him, because all he gets are vague shapes and too little detail.

It’s not just the pain and the humiliation, it’s the utter frustration of being useless and helpless that makes a dry, agonizing sob escape his lips.

He doesn’t know how long it takes until they finally retreat. It feels like an eternity of unstoppable contempt and mortification. After they’ve all fucked the poor, blind guy, they finally relent, then run.

Matt follows their footsteps as far as his senses would reach, which is just shy of the staircase in the distance.

His legs give out under him, and he slides down the concrete pillar, the cold material pressing into his right cheek. He remains slumped there for minutes that seem to stretch into elusive, undefinable chunks of time before his mind kicks into survival mode.

He tentatively moves his wrists. Something sharp cuts into them—zip ties. They’re tight, but he has some wiggle room. He feels around with his feet for a tool, anything he’s able to use to his advantage, but there’s nothing.

It takes him another fraction of forever to rub the zip ties against the concrete edge long enough to break free. He has to brace himself against the pillar not to collapse again. His breath is ragged, just like every fiber of his being. Everything hurts and another sob works its way up his chest.

He scans his surroundings, finds his clothes in a heap on the floor a few feet away. They’re still intact. His cane is there, undamaged. At least there’s that.

When he’s dressed, he tries to walk, tries to ignore the pain that every step he takes seems to aggravate. There’s a staircase he aims for, still not quite sure where he is. Disorientation dominates his world.

The cold night air hits his face when he finally manages to find an exit. There’s not a single person around. A faint swooshing of cars somewhere in the distance underlines the relative silence. It must be the middle of the night.

He stumbles more than walks, for an indefinite amount of time until he realizes he’s near the campus. He’s never been in this area, and he wonders what buildings these may be. But at least now he knows where he is, can find his way back to the dorm.

Matt’s head is pounding to the rhythm of the techno beats two stories above by the time he enters the building he now calls home. He hesitates in front of their door—312. Somehow he wishes Foggy wasn’t there, because he’ll wake up, and then there’s going to be questions and inquiries, and that’s something Matt doesn’t think he can take right this very moment.

He can hear quiet snoring from behind the door, so he thinks maybe he has a chance to sneak in undetected. The door squeaks lightly when Matt opens it, and he tries his best to not make any sound. It plays in his favor that he doesn’t need any light to orient himself.

As if on autopilot, he gets a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, and his towel, shower gel and shampoo. Foggy’s breathing is still even when he slips out again to go the showers at the end of the hallway.

His mind is blank, devoid of anything but red swirls of angry flames hissing at him. The walls seems to want to come at him, and he almost flinches, even though he knows it’s all in his mind because light perception still eludes him. He wants to close his eyes to make it go away—and he tries. The flames only get angrier.

A frustrated growl escapes his lips, because he doesn’t want to give in to admitting solid objects could present the last obstacle. He’s made it this far. He can’t get there fast enough to get the filth clinging to him off his body.

In the washroom, he lets his clothes fall where he stands. The water is ice cold and takes agonizing minutes of shivering and goosebumps until it’s warm enough to brave.

Matt steps into the shower cubicle, the tiles cold and wet beneath his feet. He lathers his body—twice, three times, four. He rubs and rubs, until he thinks his skin must be bright red. He turns the temperature up until the water is hot, almost scalding. Both hands braced against the cubicle wall, he leans forward and surrenders to the memories he’s trying to wash off his skin. His tears mingle seamlessly with the water streaming from the old, scaly shower head.

He dries himself off and hopes there’s no blood. He should have grabbed a dark colored towel. He doesn’t remember which color this one has. Normally, he couldn’t care less, but for the first time, it matters. He doesn’t want questions, doesn’t want Foggy asking and worrying and just... there. He wants to be alone. And die, possibly. Die alone. Because this? This is agony.

The clothes he slips on feel soft and familiar. A new skin he’s comfortable in, or as comfortable as he ever will be. He has a feeling nothing’s going to be the same after tonight, although he’s determined not to let that happen.

This kind of thing happens to a lot of people. He can deal with this. He’s dealt with... worse? Maybe. Maybe not. It’s going to become a memory. Eventually.

He throws the old clothes into the trashcan in the corner. It’s barely big enough to fit them, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want the reminder, the smell in their room, and he lacks the energy to go downstairs again.

Foggy voice when he opens the door startles him, makes him jump, even. He hadn’t expected him to be awake, hence hadn’t paid attention. The red flames are still licking from the walls, distracting him.

“You’re out late,” Foggy says, and his voice is part teasing, part sleep-laden.

Matt doesn’t reply, because if he opens his mouth, he’s afraid the wrong words will come out, or a sob, or a croak, or... something inappropriate he doesn’t know how to anticipate. He hopes Foggy didn’t switch on any lights.

“Like, super-late,” Foggy tacks on to his previous statement. “Tell me again _why_ you decided to roam the campus at three in the morning.”

Matt just knits his brow and ducks to where he knows his bed is, his movements careful as to not give anything away, which he possibly still does, because, fuck, he doesn’t know to pretend to be like a normal, blind person anymore.

He can practically feel Foggy frowning at the other end of the room, because the worry Matt didn’t want now creeps into his voice. “Matt? You okay, buddy?”

“Go back to sleep, Foggy,” Matt just says, because he can’t quite bring himself to force out the lie that he’s fine.

“Something’s wrong,” Foggy says, and Matt has no idea where he gleaned that from. But Foggy can sometimes be very perceptive, especially when you least expect it. Or want it. “Did something happen?”

 _Yes!_ everything inside Matt screams, but he presses his lips together and says nothing.

“Come on, talk to me, buddy,” Foggy urges, and Matt wants to punch him in the face so he’ll shut up.

“I just wanna sleep, okay?” Matt mumbles exhaustedly.

Foggy doesn’t want to press the issue, it seems. Not in the wee hours of the night, because he gives a hum of approval, underlined by a low, “Okay.”

There’s a click of a lamp switch, the bedsheets rustle, and Foggy mutters, “Good night.”

Matt doesn’t respond and lets his head sink into his pillow. His mind reels with a million images chasing each other in endlessly repeating cycles, until he finds the strength to focus on his breathing. Meditation is a feeble comfort that falls short in every aspect tonight, but something finally gives, and he lets the dark emptiness of sleep envelop him when it finally decides to claim him.

~~~~~~

Something startles him awake, and it takes Matt a second to realize it’s Foggy’s voice.

“Come on, Matt. You’re not usually this sluggish. Wake up, buddy.”

Matt stirs under the covers, and the pain hammers it back into his mind with an all too sudden clarity. Unlike the sharp sting of a flesh wound, this pain is different—a bone-deep ache that weighs down his body from the inside.

Foggy rambles on. “I know you’ve only slept, what? Five hours? But if you wanna make Human Rights Law, you gotta get up. And I know you wanna make Human Rights Law, because there’s that hot girl in second row you always sit behind. Maybe it’s her perfume, what do I know? Is it her perfume? Tell me.”

Foggy draws nearer, and Matt wants to flinch.

“Talk to me. Are you sick? Are you running a fever?”

Foggy’s hand is suddenly on his forehead, and Matt recoils like he was just hit by a high voltage electroshock. It happens in a split second, and it’s entirely involuntary. Like a reflex. It’s not right. He knows that.

“Whoa,” Foggy whispers and takes a startled step back.

Involuntary tears fill Matt’s eyes, because he didn’t want this, he doesn’t want to be scared of Foggy. This isn’t him, he doesn’t know what’s happening.

Foggy’s voice is thick with worry, emotion, and consternation. “Matt? What’s wrong?”

Matt’s forehead contorts with the pain of Foggy’s concern thick in the air, crowding his space. He doesn’t want to talk, just wants to disappear. He presses his hand to his mouth, and Foggy gasps.

“Shit, Matt, what is that? What the hell is going on?” he demands.

For a second, Matt wonders what he might mean, but then he remembers the zip ties. He probably has bruises and scuff marks on his wrists. Yes, he can feel them now, a little sharper above the general din of his pain. He quickly slips his hand back under his covers.

Foggy now crouches down next to his bed, and his voice is getting closer to a panicked breaking point. “Did someone hurt you? Is that what happened last night?”

Matt just lies there and closes his eyes, turning his head away.

Foggy’s voice is now a pleading whisper. “Matt. Please. Tell me what happened.”

He shakes his head and turns his back to Foggy, drawing the blanket up a little higher to his neck. “Go away, Foggy.” He adds, “Please,” for good measure.

He can hear Foggy’s heart hammering in his chest, anxious and scared, and he wishes he could bring himself to care. But the world is just too much today. Foggy will want him to talk and then to get up, and go to a hospital, and have all the test, and just… no.

“You know I can’t do that,” Foggy says. It’s choked, like maybe there are tears there.

It sounds like he is sitting down next to his bed with his back against the small bedside table. He sits there in silence, and minutes tick by. Foggy sniffles once, rubs a hand under his nose. Then his voice pipes up again. “Who did this? Who assaulted you?”

Matt stays quiet. Maybe if he doesn’t say anything, Foggy will eventually go away.

But he doesn’t. He comes around the other side of the bed, his voice more vehement now. “Matt, you need to fucking talk to me, okay? Who did this? What did they do? How far… Did they…? Oh God, they raped you, didn’t they?”

It hangs in the air, and Matt can’t deny the ugly word. He presses his lips together, and Foggy sees it right there on his face. “Jesus,” he mutters. “Matt. Fuck.”

Yeah, Matt thinks. That about sums it up.

Foggy is getting into action mode now, and this is what Matt feared. “You need to go to the hospital. Get a… rape kit, or whatever they do. They can still do that a few hours later, I think. Shit, I should look this up. Come on, Matt. You want these guys to get caught, don’t you? Brought to justice? We’re gonna be fucking lawyers, you know how this works.”

What? What can he do? There is nothing he can identify them by. No sounds, voices, distinctive smells. He’s sure they used condoms. There wouldn’t be any DNA evidence. They were careful.

“Matt?” Foggy keeps prodding. “Will you do this? For me? Please?”

He wants to say no. He _will_ say no. He can’t do this. Not even for Foggy, and that pains him.

“No,” he presses out through his clenched jaw. It’s barely a whisper.

He can feel Foggy’s stance slumping beside his bed, and he thinks maybe he’s won this not-quite-argument. But of course Foggy is Foggy—the guy has learned not to take any of Matt’s misguided shit.

“Not good enough,” he says, pulling the covers off of Matt. “You’re coming with me right this second.”

Foggy’s hands close around Matt’s forearms, and Matt just… snaps. Instinct and muscle memory make his arms jerk away and out of Foggy’s grip in an instant. His chest shoots up, and his right arm along with it. His fist collides with the side of Foggy’s face, and there’s an ugly sound of bone hitting bone.

Foggy tumbles backwards and lands ungracefully on the floor. Shocked silence is followed by a confused hiss from Foggy. “What the fuck, Matt?!”

Matt wants to apologize, wants to turn back time. A day or two, maybe more. He cradles his right fist in his left, the sting of the blow rippling through him from his knuckles right into his chest where a lump starts forming. Everything is wrong, terribly wrong, fucked up beyond belief.

He draws in a shuddered breath, and thinks there’s a sorry somewhere in the exhale, although he can’t be sure. Foggy is scrambling to his feet, and Matt does the only thing that makes sense to him. He flees.

He’s almost by the door when Foggy plants himself in his way. “Oh no,” he says, his tone challenging. “You don’t get to leave. Not like this.”

Matt clenches his jaw, and his fists along with it. He tries to push past Foggy, but his friend stays steadfast in Matt’s path. He can tell Foggy doesn’t dare touch him again. Matt just stands there, trying to keep the rage inside him at bay.

Foggy anger seems to want to match his own when he says, “Why?! Why, Matt? Why would you run? You were never a coward. Why would you run from this?”

Matt takes half a step back, frees up the space between them. “Please don’t do this,” he forces out, the desperation leaking from his voice.

Foggy hesitates another moment, then steps back, clearing the way. He shakes his head, Matt can sense it, and there’s something else there. A bone-deep sadness, and tears in his friend’s eyes. “I can’t stop you,” Foggy chokes out, “but I goddamn wish I could.”

Matt ignores it, _needs_ to ignore it, because he doesn’t deserve someone like Foggy. He’s never deserved him. The doorknob yields easily to his touch and the door clunks shut too forcefully behind him.

He just walks, because he needs to get away. Not sure how or where exactly. Where would he go without shoes, a jacket, his cane?

His fingers brush along the walls as he walks, more out of habit than necessity. He finds the door to the staircase, and enters without a clear destination. His hurried feet take him down two flights of stairs, but he misjudges the last one, and missteps. He slides down two steps before staggering to a halt with his hands desperately grabbing for a hold on the handrail.

A dull pain all around his tailbone is an unwelcome reminder of the previous night when he sinks down to sit on one of the wooden steps.

The muffled silence presses down on him, mingling with the smell of floor polish, stale air, and dust. He tries to quiet his ragged, raspy breathing, desperately searching for something he can use to center himself. The only thing he finds is the pain in his right fist when he flexes his hand.

His world crumbles around him in dark gray ashes, smothering all that may have ever been good or just. His head sinks into his hands under the crushing weight of the blackness around him.

He hunches his back a little more when a door a story above him opens, and a soft footfall announces human company. He reaches out, and there he is. He’d recognize that heartbeat anywhere. Why can’t Foggy leave him the fuck alone?

Tentative steps get closer, then slow as he passes Matt. Something is deposited next to him, and Foggy’s voice is soft and full of sadness.

“Listen. I’m leaving. I, uh… Shit, I don’t know how to do this. Maybe you need some time to figure this out. I don’t know. But you clearly don’t want me around, so, yeah. I’m going. I mean, not for good. Just for the day, okay? Find me in the library if you wanna talk. Or… well… whatever. If you need me to sleep somewhere else, I can do that too. So, uh, let me know.”

There’s an awkward silence, then Foggy mutters, “Okay,” as if to reassure himself. Of what, Matt isn’t sure. Foggy turns around and walks away, and Matt does nothing to stop him.

He mentally follows Foggy down the stairs, hears the door on the ground floor click into the lock. Matt feels for what it is that Foggy put down next to him. It’s his sneakers, a pair of socks and a hoodie. His folded up cane lies on top of the pile, as well as his sunglasses. Matt’s fingers brush across them, the cold, smooth material all too familiar.

His world continues to silently crumble into pieces.

~~~~~~

Foggy comes back to their dorm room in the evening. He smells faintly of alcohol and not so faintly of pizza.

From where Matt is lying in the safe harbor of his bed, he can tell Foggy startles for a moment at the mess that greets him. Tattered pieces of Braille textbooks, a broken bottle or two (the diet coke one still half full from the way it fizzed when it shattered), various items that used to be on Matt’s desk that are now strewn across the floor.

Foggy never says a word as he deposits his backpack and jacket on his bed and then walks over to where Matt is lying. The side of Foggy’s face where Matt hit him is slightly swollen, and Matt can only guess he has a black eye to go with it.

Matt holds his breath as Foggy places something on his nightstand. The first words Foggy says are, “There’s pizza here and some water. I don’t know if you’ve had anything to eat, but my best guess is no, so…”

Foggy retreats again, then quietly starts cleaning up the room, placing some items back where they belong, throwing others in the trash. He mops up the spilled, sugary drink, cleans the stain with all-purpose cleaner. And Matt hates him for it just a little bit, because it should be his mess to tidy up.

Matt reaches for the water bottle and gulps down several mouthfuls to the _plonk_ sound the trash bag makes as Foggy throws it into their trashcan. He never utters a single word about the mess, which somehow Matt is thankful for.

Familiar noises keep filling the space around them as Foggy putters around. Matt welcomes them, lets them wash over him. There’s a dim kind of comfort there that he clings to. The noises suddenly stop, and Foggy’s breath stutters. He’s about to say something, but hesitates a long moment.

“Do you want me to leave?” he finally asks.

Matt’s voice is a low rasp. He hasn’t used it since this morning. “No.”

“Okay,” Foggy says, and maybe there’s a bit of relief in there.

That’s all he says for the rest of the evening. Matt turns on his side and curls himself into a ball. He falls asleep at some point, guided there by the steady rhythm of Foggy’s heartbeat on the other side of the room.

~~~~~~

Somehow, miraculously, things seem to appear on Matt’s nightstand. A mug of tea in the morning. A fresh sandwich. A waffle with maple syrup. A bottle of Gatorade. Matt sleeps in increments between eating, until he can’t sleep anymore.

Foggy comes and goes, and there isn’t much talking. There isn’t _any_ talking on Matt’s part. He’s learned to wrap himself in the comfort of the silence. There’s a sense of security there, and he’s found he doesn’t need words for any of this. He only leaves his bed for the bare necessities, and by the time that Foggy comes back in the early evening, Matt isn’t exactly sure what he’s done all day.

Chair legs scrape across the hardwood floor at some point, and Foggy draws closer. Matt has to fight hard not to flinch. The ratty, old armchair with the worn upholstery is being moved next to Matt’s bed, and Foggy sits down in it.

Matt turns his back to Foggy. There’s going to be poking and prodding, he’s sure of it, and it’s not something he’s equipped to deal with.

But then there isn’t, not in the sense that Matt expected. At first, Foggy doesn’t speak for a long time. Then his voice pipes up, wary but steady. “Okay, so I’ve tried the staying away thing, and that just isn’t working for me. Plus, I don’t think you should be alone right now.

“I mean, I get that you probably expect for people to leave you, because apparently that’s the sum of your life experiences so far. But you know what? That’s not me, and you better deal with it. Cause I’m here.

“And I don’t have the slightest clue how to do this, but you missed a shit ton of classes today. Well, three classes. Okay, maybe two and a half, cos as you know, Copyright Law barely counts. But I still took notes. Which you also know I never do, so I’m gonna put those to good use and read them to you, whether you like it or not, okay?”

There’s paper shuffling, and Foggy starts rattling off facts and teaching points. Sometimes he adds commentary, which Matt wants to smile at but can’t quite bring himself to. He listens to all of it, although he doesn’t have a clue whether Foggy realizes that or not. It’s a welcome distraction, and maybe that was Foggy’s whole point of doing this. If that’s the case, Matt thinks the guy deserves a fucking medal.

When Foggy’s done, he yawns audibly. “Man, I haven’t paid attention in class like this in, like, forever. It’s exhausting. Seriously, how do people do it?”

He flips his notebook shut with a snap, and Matt can’t help but wince at the sudden sound. Foggy immediately apologizes. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to do that.”

Matt wants to cry, because this isn’t him. He isn’t the kind of guy who is jumpy and scared and vulnerable. He hates this new version of him, wants to pack his things and run somewhere that is as far away from human contact as remotely possible. The only thing stopping him is the black hole he’s trapped in that sucks all his energy away. It’s the only reason he stays and just... endures.

Foggy gets up, but the chair stays where Foggy put it. Apparently he has future plans for it right there in that spot, and Matt isn’t sure what to do with that.

~~~~~~

The next day passes in much of a blur, and Foggy keeps doing his thing. He brings food and soft drinks, sometimes with Braille labels attached, and takes away the dirty dishes. When Matt goes to the bathroom, Foggy lifts his head from where he’s sitting on his bed. Matt thinks he may even be smiling approvingly when Matt takes a shower and comes back in a clean pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

On day four, Foggy draws the armchair a little closer and props his feet up on the foot of Matt’s bed. Foggy is careful not to touch him, Matt can tell, but his feet still jerk away a little farther—an involuntary reaction, and he holds his breath afterwards because he wishes his body wouldn’t keep betraying him this way.

Foggy’s voice is full of cheer and impetus. “Hey look, we have your favorite today. Sports Law. We both ace this one, and we can become fancy ass lawyers and represent Michael Jordan one day. What do you say, buddy?”

Matt wants to comment that Michael Jordan retired from an active sports career about ten years ago. But he doesn’t.

Today Foggy narrates back aforementioned Law in Sports, but also Gender Justice, Corporate Finance and Capital Markets Regulation. Matt has a feeling Foggy only diligently attended them all so he can do this for Matt. Foggy hates Corporate Finance and, to Matt’s knowledge, only ever attended that lecture once.

It takes almost two hours for Foggy to recount everything, including the rant about Prof. Chan’s comb-over. “Seriously, that’s the one time where you should rejoice over that vision-related disadvantage of yours. Every time I look at the guy, I wanna attack him with hair clippers.”

Foggy withdraws his sock-clad feet and puts his notes on the floor. “Man, I’m so vitamin deprived. This,” he points at the Matt-shaped heap under the covers, “is making me realize just how much you’ve become my nutritional conscience. So I have plans to make up for that.”

Next thing Matt knows, Foggy is in the kitchenette, taking a knife to an assortment of fruits he seems to have bought. Matt is too lazy to tell them apart from all the way in the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later, Foggy comes back with two cereal bowls of fruit salad, one of which finds its way onto Matt’s nightstand.

Matt doesn’t know why Foggy chooses to sit on the floor this time, and Matt doesn’t move when Foggy leans his back against the side of Matt’s bed. The only sounds disturbing the silence are the clanks of spoon against ceramic and Foggy’s jaw working on the pieces of fruit one by one.

The spoon jingles against the rim of the bowl when Foggy puts it away. His long hair rustles on the fabric as he leans his head back to rest it against the edge of Matt’s mattress. His breath is shaky, and Matt can feel Foggy’s heartbeat quickening. He knows this does not bode well and waits for the chastisement.

But once again, Matt realizes how much he doesn’t know his friend, because there’s none of that. Instead, there’s something Matt would never have expected, because Foggy is crying. He can smell the salty tears sliding down Foggy’s cheeks, and there’s clumsy hands wiping them away.

Foggy’s voice is choked and heavy, barely above a whisper. “Dammit, Matt, I don’t know what to do, how to help you. You haven’t spoken a single word in two days, and I don’t know if you even realize that. I wish you’d tell me what happened, though I have a pretty good idea, and now I have all these horrifying images in my head, and… and it’s killing me.

“And I don’t wanna push, because,” he lets out a wet chuckle, “we clearly established that isn’t conducive to either of our wellbeing. And by the way, no hard feelings on that one, okay? But, really, it’s my own fault, because I should’ve known better than to touch you. I wasn’t thinking, and I’m sorry for that.

“I just… I wish you would talk to me, wish you would tell me what you need. Or at least give me something, so I know you’re still in there, and you’re gonna make it through this. Cause right now… right now I think it’s destroying you, and I… I can’t…”

Foggy’s voice breaks there, and Matt chokes on the lump in his throat, his face contorting with emotions he can’t keep at bay. He turns on his side to face the back of Foggy’s head, and his hand edges closer until it finds Foggy’s shoulder.

Foggy stiffens for a fraction of a second, then relaxes noticeably. Matt lets his hand rest there, soaks in the warmth with his palm that permeates through Foggy’s shirt. Foggy’s own hand comes up and tentatively covers Matt’s, and Matt doesn’t draw away this time.

They stay like that for a long time, until Foggy’s shaky breathing evens out and they find a semblance of common ground where their pain converges. It’s Matt who finally breaks the contact when he draws himself into a sitting position, leaning his back against the bed’s wooden headboard.

The fruit salad is fresh and juicy, and it has a bit of an acidic bite to it, but Matt welcomes the feeling because it makes him feel more alive than he has in the past few days. His unused voice comes out all croaky when he finishes every last bit and says, “Thank you, Foggy.”

“You’re welcome, buddy.”

~~~~~~

Progress is slow, but Foggy is there with him all the way. Sometimes he crowds Matt’s space a little too much, but Foggy’s learned to read the signals and withdraw when the shorthand is spelled out clearly enough for him to understand.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Foggy asks unsurely when Matt is dressed in jeans, sweater, jacket and his woolen scarf around his neck, his cane in his hand. They’re still standing inside their dorm room.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Matt intones.

“Because, you know, I can keep taking notes for you. I’ve become expert note-taking master. Who knew the day would come where I could actually decipher my own handwriting?”

“Isn’t this what you’ve been nagging me to do? Go out there and brave the big, bad, crazy world? Almost your exact words.”

Matt fully expects a flippant retort, but Foggy’s voice is quiet. “I just wanna make sure you’re ready.”

It’s touching, and Matt’s brows knit together for the tiniest moment with unexpected emotion. “I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

“All right, Buster. Let’s do this.”

The trip to the lecture hall is almost anti-climactic. Foggy stays close but never touches, and Matt doesn’t either. Foggy’s chatter distracts him, and he has a feeling Foggy is trying to be extra cheerful, and extra wordy. Matt’s mouth pulls into a smile here and there at another one of Foggy’s odd and borderline inappropriate commentaries.

They stop in front of the doors to the lecture hall, and Foggy says, “I’m not real sure I can face Captain Comb-Over. I have a sudden, overwhelming urge to follow that voice in my head that repeats, ‘Skip CF, skip CF, skip CF,’ in a loud, overbearing screech. You can hear it too, right?”

Matt gives him a smile. “Seriously? This is the first class I’m attending in almost two weeks, and you wanna bail?”

Foggy sighs theatrically. “I know. I’m just sayin’...”

“Come on,” Matt says, “You can do this. Keep taking notes. We might need them afterwards. In case I forget how this works and you have to re-narrate everything to me later.”

“Those are not great prospects,” Foggy moans.

Matt ignores it, and together they walk into the room.

~~~~~~

It’s four weeks later, and things have somewhat... normalized. Matt doesn’t think about that night so often anymore. Well, no, that’s not true. It comes and goes in waves, and it’s always bad when it happens. But then there’s Foggy, and his steady heartbeat and just overall warmth and unwavering there-ness.

He knows he couldn’t have done this without Foggy. Not even close. Some days he wants to stumble into their dorm room and just hug the shit out of him, but he’s not quite there yet. Physical contact is still a challenge, and he jumps every time someone brushes past him just a little too closely.

And Foggy gets it, because he hasn’t touched Matt even once in all that time.

They’ve gone out tonight to celebrate. The results of the first test of the semester are in, and they’ve both passed with flying colors—all thanks to Foggy’s relentless note-taking and lecture narration. It seemed like an apt occasion to spend their meager money on alcoholic beverages.

They’re both nicely buzzed on their way home, and Foggy fastens his step. “Come on, I know a shortcut. Trust me on this, buddy.”

“Things end badly when I start trusting you.” Matt follows him anyway.

“Since when?” Foggy asks.

Matt chuckles. “Since the cat in the swimming pool. Or the cut in your finger that needed six stitches. Need me to go on?”

“Okay, maybe those wernn... wern’d... shit. I’m drunk. Are you drunk? Why are you not drunk?”

“Oh, I’m drunk. A little.”

“You sound astoundingly sober.”

Matt’s cane clicks on the ground as they weave their way along the paths that lead them through Sakura Park. Matt is content to just listen to Foggy’s wild, drunken theories about nepotism in politics. They exit the park, and suddenly—

Everything stops.

Matt freezes where he stands, and it takes Foggy two seconds to catch on and turn around. “Hey, no slacking,” he bursts out, but then realizes something is very wrong.

“Matt?” he says in a half-whisper, and it sounds as if he knows what this is about.

Matt can’t move, his legs paralyzed, because this street is familiar.

Foggy steps closer but stays out of his safe zone. “Is this...?” he asks hesitantly.

Matt nods, words failing him.

Foggy stares at him, waits. Seconds tick by. “What... what do you wanna do?” Foggy asks.

“Can we go? Just go?”

Foggy swallows audibly. “Yeah. Of course.”

He makes sure they stick to the main streets until they get to their dorm. There isn’t any more conversation on the way.

When they get to their room, Matt takes off his jacket and throws it onto his bed. His world starts spinning around a tilted axis, and it’s all he can do to feel for the mattress and sink down.

Foggy gives him space, goes to the kitchen to do... something. There’s the rustle of cardboard boxes being opened, clanking of mugs, their electric kettle hissing angrily after a while. It takes a few minutes until Foggy appears, holding something out to Matt.

Tea. With sugar. Matt accepts the mug almost robotically.

Foggy hovers, unsure. His voice is gentle when he asks, “Hey, uhm, do you want me to—”

“No,” Matt quickly interrupts.

Foggy sits down on the bed next to Matt. The distance says ‘not too close, but I’m here if you need me’.

Their sips are the only noise disrupting the silence, and Foggy waits. Patiently. Like he’s done for weeks. His heartbeat is still steady, but it’s fast and anxious, like he knows Matt’s dangerously close to reaching the breaking point.

“It’s okay, Matt,” he finally says just above a whisper. “You don’t have to tell me. But maybe you should talk to someone about it. Because these things, they don’t just go away. I can help you with that. Go to Medical and Counseling Services with you. Find out what we need to do. Whatever it takes.”

“No,” Matt chokes out. “No, I don’t want to...”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“No,” Matt says, and there’s an anger all of a sudden that he doesn’t know where it’s coming from. “No, you don’t!”

“Okay, no, I don’t. But—“

“But what?!” Matt jumps up, raises his voice to the point where he’s full-out yelling, “You think you can imagine? Yeah, I don’t think you can, because do you want to know what happened? They took off my pants, bound me to a pillar, held on to my arms and legs, and then took turns. They fucked me long and hard in the ass, each and every one of them, and it hurt, and it was humiliating, and I couldn’t do a fucking thing about it! Do you think you can imagine that? Huh?! Can you?!”

Foggy’s voice is a strangled mess of tears and utter horror. “No.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

Foggy gets up from the bed, puts distance between them. For a second Matt thinks he’s going to leave the room, but he doesn’t. He walks over to his desk and bows over it with his arms braced on the edge of the tabletop. Matt’s focus suddenly narrows down entirely to that small, agonizing sound of Foggy’s sniffles. His anger abates in tandem with Foggy’s hitched breaths.

“I’m sorry,” Matt squeezes out, but Foggy quickly interrupts him.

“No. No, Matt. You don’t get to apologize. Because none of this is your fault.” His voice breaks just a little, but he pushes through it. “None. Do you hear me? This is _not_ your fault.”

Matt’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. Why are they talking about blame? That was never in question, because Matt knows he was stupid and careless that night. He brought it on himself, and he could probably have avoided it if he’d just been a little more alert, a little stronger, a little—

“Matt?”

Matt’s head whips around. He takes the same step back that Foggy steps forward. It stops Foggy in mid-motion, and makes him draw a hand to his mouth. Matt hears his shuddering breath, his resignation.

“I can’t do this, Matt. You need help, and I can’t give you what you need. Maybe I thought I could, but who am I kidding?”

 _No!_ Matt wants to scream. _You’re helping, you don’t have the slightest clue know how much so, and I don’t wanna talk to some fucking stranger about this!_

But here he is again, and the silence just seems so much more comfortable than whatever words he can form.

Foggy grabs his jacket and is almost by the door, when Matt forces out, “Please don’t leave.”

Foggy hesitates, but then keeps walking. “I think I have to.”

The tears flow down Matt’s cheeks even before the door softly clicks into the lock behind Foggy. They’re unstoppable, and red-hot, and all-encompassing. He sinks to the floor where he stands as the sobs wrack his body. They’re the kind that are violent and take away your breath until you struggle to just make it to the next intake of air.

And then there’s something near him, arms wrap around him and draw him closer, envelop him. He struggles for a few feeble seconds, but then surrenders and sags against the shelter of Foggy’s warm body kneeling in front of him.

Foggy pulls him near, rubs his back, holds his shaking body for a long time, until there’s only emptiness and exhaustion and raw pain. He never says a word through all of it.

When there are no more tears, Matt pulls back ever so slightly, and Foggy releases his hold of Matt’s shoulders. His hands slide to Matt’s upper arms and he gently pushes him back.

“Come on,” Foggy whispers. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Matt is pliant and bereft of both energy and volition. He doesn’t remember much about the rest of that evening except shoes and clothes being wrestled off of him and covers that are tucked around him.

Foggy rests his hand on Matt’s clavicle for two, three seconds, warm and loving, and whispers, “Just sleep, okay? We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”

It’s the first night in over a month that Matt sleeps until the morning without interruption.

~~~~~~

Foggy digs into this like a terrier into a trouser leg.

He nudges Matt to go to Counseling and Psychological Services, sits with him at the CPS campus center as they wait. He also sits and waits through every single of his individual Trauma Support sessions, and he never says a word if Matt comes out with his eyes puffy behind his glasses (which Foggy can always tell), or if he’s tight-lipped and crestfallen.

And Matt would not have believed it possible, but gradually he realizes that life regains meaning again. The dark clouds are parting, and there are more hearty laughs, moments of true joy, and just... a certain sense of normalcy.

Foggy fails Corporate Finance—not a huge surprise—so Matt promises to help him study for when he retakes the test. It’s the very least he can do, and he knows it’s not nearly enough. Nothing will ever be enough to repay Foggy for the humongous leap he’s taken, the tenacity and support that never ceased.

There are moments in which he realizes the full extent of what the last few weeks have been like, and those are the ones where the guilt hits him like a deadweight. Because Foggy deserves to know about his heightened senses, about what life is really like for him. He feels bad every time he detects one of Foggy’s white lies but still plays along, or takes his friend’s elbow just for show.

The first time he reached for Foggy’s arm again was on the way to his first Trauma Support appointment. His hand lightly touched the inside of Foggy’s elbow the way he used to, and Foggy stopped walking. He turned his head to look at Matt and gave him the biggest smile. And then he said it, because he figured Matt couldn’t tell.

He can still hear his friend’s voice in his head, beaming and proud. “I have a huge smile on my face right now, which I think you should know, so I’m telling you.”

One night, Foggy waits for him in the dorm room expectantly, brandishing something square and flat in his hand. “Okay, so this took a bit of fiddling, well, a lot of fiddling, but we have pretty awesome IT nerds on campus, and now... Ta-da!”

He presses the envelope into Matt’s hand, and he feels it. It’s a paper sleeve with a disc inside.

“Please tell me it’s not another _Glee_ fanmix. There’s only so many cheesy cover songs I can take.”

“No,” Foggy says triumphantly. “Remember when you were talking about _Good Will Hunting_ , and asked whether I had a copy? Well, this is the Matt Murdock edition. With audio description and everything.”

Matt frowns. “I thought that wasn’t available.”

“Well, not officially. But Blind Mice had an MP3 version, so I downloaded that, and then got the DVD from the library, and did the whole conversion thing, and, uh, that’s where the IT guys came in. Cause mixing audio tracks into a video file apparently takes serious skill that surpasses even my level of computer geekery. So now we can watch it together without having to rewind every two minutes because I’ve been talking over the dialogue again. What do you say?”

Matt is truly touched. This is wonderful, and just another indication of how much of a friend Foggy truly is.

Truth is, he had almost forgotten about the whole thing. His psychologist had mentioned the movie at some point, and he’d made a casual inquiry with Foggy. And then he’d filed it under ‘things that are perfectly okay to miss out on’.

They watch the movie the next Saturday on Foggy’s laptop, because it has the bigger screen. Matt supplies the portable speakers and insists he take the armchair, because Foggy should be the one that gets to lounge on the bed. Under normal circumstances, they’d both be sharing the bed, but Matt still has an issue with close physical contact, although he’s definitely making progress.

The film has them both attentive and intrigued, and neither speaks for some time after the credits roll. It does hit close to home, but there’s also hope there.

Matt gets up from the chair and goes to get a glass of water in the kitchenette. His throat is just a little too dry, his mind racing with images and something important he’s been putting off for way too long.

He ambles back into the room, hones in on Foggy’s heartbeat over on the bed. He hesitates in the middle of the room, because it’s as good a place as any.

“Hey Foggy?” he asks tentatively. “Can you come over here for a minute?”

Foggy looks up at him, and maybe there’s a moment of bewilderment, but he gets up and walks over to where Matt stands.

Matt closes the distance between them and draws Foggy into a hug, pulling his friend’s body towards his own. “I’ve never said thank you,” he mumbles into Foggy’s shoulder.

Foggy resistance melts in an instant, and he returns the gesture without question. “It’s okay,” he mumbles back.

“No, Foggy, what you did was pretty phenomenal. Because I couldn’t have done this without you. I want you to know that.”

Foggy draws back just enough to separate from the embrace, but he lets his hands linger on top of Matt’s shoulder. “And that’s the part that just won’t compute for me. Because where I come from, that’s what we do. We help out friends in need. And I just can’t imagine that the world you grew up in had none of that. So if there’s even the tiniest little something I can do to make up for all of that, I’m gonna be all over it.”

Matt feels his eyes welling up with tears, and he draws Foggy closer once more to let his hands encircle his friend’s shoulder blades. He squeezes one more time, then separates the physical connection.

Matt harrumphs awkwardly. “Okay, enough of this.”

Foggy playfully pokes him in the chest. “Just so you know, I’m always up for a good cuddle. It’s the Nelson magic. We cuddle like pros. Just say the word, and you’ll have my grubby arms around you.”

Matt laughs lightly. “In that case, you better stay away from me. Cause the Murdock curse may just cancel all of that out.”

Foggy lets out a _pff_ sound. “Not possible. The Nelson spell is almighty and cannot be cancelled out. By anything. Here, let me show you.”

Foggy hugs Matt again, this time so suddenly and tightly that Matt actually makes a _humph_ noise as the breath is being pressed from his ribcage.

He coughs melodramatically as he wrestles out of Foggy’s grasp, then chuckles, “Okay, okay, I believe you.”

“You better,” Foggy points at him. “I feel another hug attack coming on.”

“Please, no!” Matt whines mockingly. “Mercy on the blind guy.”

“All right. This once.” Foggy sobers, the mischievousness gone from his voice when he adds, “And this is something _I_ need to say, because I’m really proud of you, buddy.”

Matt’s mouth spreads into a smile. “Maverick and Goose, remember?”

“Maverick and Goose,” Foggy echoes. “Minus the dying. Here, fistbump me. No, wait. That doesn’t work. Shit, that ruined the moment. Screw it, let’s do it anyway. Hold out your fist.”

Matt does, and Foggy bumps it.

That’s when it becomes their thing.


End file.
